"You want me to say I'm scared so you'll stay with me for the night? Keep dreaming," I scoffed, trying to act tough.
Michael raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "Alright then, Princess. Good night," he said, turning toward the window, ready to jump out.
Panic surged through me. Without thinking, I grabbed his leg, my fingers tightening around his ankle.
"Please don't leave," I whispered, my voice trembling as tears rolled down my cheeks. "Stay with me… just until I fall asleep."
He froze. Then, slowly, he looked down at me, his smirk widening. "So you do need me here," he teased, letting out a low chuckle. "Well, since you asked so nicely…" He flopped back onto the bed dramatically, folding his arms behind his head. "But, just so you know—the toad's still in my pocket."
I gasped, instantly recoiling.
Michael laughed, shaking his head. "Relax, Princess. I'm kidding."
I glared at him but said nothing. He was impossible.
He stayed with me that night, filling the silence with stories—wild, ridiculous tales that had just enough truth in them to make me wonder. His voice, warm and steady, lulled me into a fragile sense of peace.
At some point, exhaustion took over, and sleep claimed me.
But my dreams were anything but peaceful.
Dark woods stretched endlessly before me, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. Shadows slithered between the trees, shifting, watching. Then—movement. A rustle in the undergrowth. My breath hitched as I turned—only to see grotesque humanoid toads emerging from the darkness, their slimy, bulbous eyes locking onto me.
They croaked, their deep, guttural voices echoing through the trees.
Then, as if the nightmare couldn't get worse, Michael appeared—perched on a throne of writhing vines, a golden crown atop his head. He grinned down at me, his laughter mixing with the awful croaks of his monstrous army.
"The Toad King welcomes you, Majesty," he declared, stretching out his arms as the creatures lunged toward me.
I jolted awake with a gasp, my heart pounding against my ribs. I glanced over my side but Michael was already gone.
Michael—Runevale's strongest knight. My mother's most loyal servant. The only person who made me forget, even for a moment, how trapped I really was.
And the only person who could still make me smile.
Even if, sometimes, I wanted to kill him for it. He had long, tousled brown hair that always seemed a little unkempt, as if he never bothered to brush it properly. His sharp brown eyes held a mischievous glint, always brimming with trouble. He had a strong, masculine build—broad shoulders, well-defined muscles—yet he moved with an effortless grace, like a predator always ready to pounce. No matter how much time passed, he always carried himself with the same infuriating confidence, as if the world itself was his playground.
I was eight years old when I first met Michael.
At the time, Runevale and the Kingdom of Namesh had been locked in a brutal war over the vast, fertile lands southwest of Runevale. As neighbouring kingdoms, conflict over resources was inevitable, but Namesh, despite its prosperity and highly trained soldiers, had suffered devastating losses. Battle after battle, Runevale crushed their forces, leaving them with no choice but to surrender their pride and seek an alliance rather than continue a war that promised only ruin.
The throne room of Runevale was grand, towering, and intimidating. Massive pillars lined the hall, stretching toward a ceiling so high it felt like the heavens themselves loomed above. The air was thick with tension as the delegation from Namesh stood in stiff silence, their eyes darting nervously between one another, their armor gleaming under the torchlight.
Then, the massive doors swung open.
A hush fell over the room as my mother, the Queen of Runevale, entered. She did not need to speak to command attention—her mere presence demanded it.
She moved like a vision, her long, flowing dark hair cascading in waves down to her waist, glistening as if woven from moonlight itself. Every step she took echoed through the hall, her posture exuding both grace and undeniable authority.
"She's even more beautiful than the rumors said," one of the Namesh soldiers muttered under his breath, eyes wide in awe.
"Look at her skin… smooth like porcelain." Another added, voice laced with disbelief.
"I expected her to be striking, but this…" A soldier swallowed hard. "This is something else."
Trailing behind her was Ramius, her right hand and the brilliant strategist of Runevale. His expression was unreadable, sharp eyes scanning the room with quiet calculation.
Gasps rippled through the Namesh delegation.
"Wait… that's Ramius?" a young maiden whispered, her gaze fixed on him. "I thought he was an old man!"
"Impossible… How does he look so youthful?"
"Rumor has it he's just as deadly as Orin," someone murmured. "But for some reason, he avoids the battlefield."
Then, the air grew heavy—thick with an almost tangible sense of dread.
Orin stepped into the room.
The murmurs died instantly.
He moved with a quiet, predatory grace, his presence alone more terrifying than a battlefield of armed men. His single remaining arm rested at his side, but even with his missing limb, he exuded sheer, unshaken power.
A soldier clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "That's the monster who butchered our men… What the hell is he doing here?" His voice wavered despite his attempt to sound composed. "This is no battleground, why was he invited?"
"He lost his right arm. He's not as powerful as before," another soldier muttered, though his tone lacked confidence.
"You fool," a senior warrior hissed, eyes darting around nervously. "Do you even know who took his arm?"
The soldier hesitated. "… Who?"
"The King of Persia," came the grim reply. "Orin is the only man who's ever fought that abomination and lived to tell the tale."
A shudder ran through the gathered warriors.
"No way…" The disbelief in their voices was clear. "Fighting that freak of nature takes guts… but surviving a battle with him? That's beyond ridiculous."
The tension in the room was suffocating, thick with unspoken fear and forced bravado.
As they entered, everyone in the grand hall stood. I did too, as was expected. The air was heavy with unspoken tension, the faint scent of incense and polished wood lingering. The banners of Runevale hung high.
The Queen moved with quiet grace, her presence alone enough to command absolute silence. As she took her seat on the throne, the rest followed, including me—I sat to her right, the position of her only heiress.
A soldier stepped forward, his voice ringing through the hall.
"Announcing the arrival of His Majesty, King of Namesh."
The doors opened, and the King of Namesh strode in. A middle-aged man with dark brown hair, a well-groomed beard, and a single mole on his right cheek. His posture was straight, but there was a stiffness to his steps, the kind that came from knowing he was walking into the lion's den.
His gaze briefly swept over the gathered nobles before settling on my mother. He bowed slightly.
"Lady Nyxelene."
My mother barely acknowledged him, offering only a single, indifferent nod.
A sharp scoff came from the Namesh delegation.
"Tsk, just because she's beautiful, she acts like she's above our king. Greeting him with only a nod? Who does she think she is?" one of the Namesh soldiers muttered under his breath.
Unfortunately for him, my mother had the ears of a hawk.
She didn't turn, didn't so much as blink, but Orin—who stood just behind her—moved immediately. He understood without needing a single word.
There was a flash of steel.
The soldier didn't even get the chance to finish his breath before his head was separated from his shoulders. His body collapsed with a dull thud, the severed head rolling a few feet before coming to a stop.
The room fell into complete silence. Gasps and hushed murmurs rippled through the gathered nobles. Some of the noblewomen stifled screams, their hands clasped over their mouths. The King of Namesh, though experienced in war, had not expected such immediate brutality. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing.
My mother remained seated, her expression unchanged, as if nothing had happened.
Orin, with a calmness that was almost eerie, wiped his dagger clean on the dead soldier's cloak before returning it to its sheath. Then, as if addressing his own men, he spoke to the remaining Namesh soldiers.
"Clean up."